


like real people do

by pchsnplms



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom!Geralt, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Soft Dom Jaskier, he dies at some point but he comes back, i might be projecting onto them, immortal!jaskier, like. not a witcher but something, mutant!jaskier, smell kink, top!Jaskier, very very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pchsnplms/pseuds/pchsnplms
Summary: A short, sweet story of how Jaskier became immortal, Geralt learned he's not a strange, unlovable creature, and they lived happily ever after. Who doesn't like a good old fairy-tale, right? There's also some porn.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 654





	1. the first step

**Author's Note:**

> so, the title and those lyrics in the fic are from Hozier's song Like Real People Do. i hope u guys enjoy this fic <3

It doesn’t really make sense to Geralt, if he’s being honest.

The stubborness with which the bard insists that he will travel with him, stay at his side. Jaskier enjoys the comfort of expensive taverns they stay it every now and again, the crowd he gathers there, the attention he gets. Life on the road deprives him of all the things he loves in this world, so why is he still here?

The fascination with which Jaskier looks at him. It’s a strange thing to say, yet it’s practically undeniable at this point. While Jaskier’s first ballads were all about the epic slaying of monsters, with time they grew more and more personal, and these days he was singing about Geralt himself, praising his kindness and, ironically enough, humanity.  
_(There was also one song Jaskier only performed at brothels and the cheapest taverns that was not clearly about Geralt, but there was something along the lines of ‘white hair tangled in my fingers’ which baffled most of the patrons who heard it. The rest was obscure enough so that it was impossible to tell who it was about, and bawdy enough for everyone to forget the strange line.)_

How Jaskier genuinely seems to prefer the wither’s company to quite literally everyone else’s. Geralt has no illusions as to what kind of person he is: closed off, non-talkative, rude even, at times. The opposite of who he would picture Jaskier befriending. So why, pray tell, is he still here?

Jaskier, all smiles and charm, the very soul of any party, so full of love his scent is always mixed up with it. Constantly getting in trouble and somehow getting out of it with barely any effort, with laughter coming out of his chest, sound as clear as ringing bells, almost melodic.

Geralt, the lonely White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, the witcher. Someone who helps people, yet who they’re terrified of. Not wanted anywhere, never welcomed. Cold and calculated, heartless machine made for killing. Is he not?

They are different. So different, in fact, that their friendship doesn’t make any sense. The bard should be bored out of his mind next to the witcher if not terrified by him, and Geralt himself should be annoyed to death by Jaskier’s constant rambling. Yet, he’s not.

_Yet, here they are._

They have been travelling together for a couple of years now, on and off, sometimes separating but always finding each other again, somehow. Jaskier became sort of famous, both for his songs and the slightly eccentric image of a man often seen by the witcher’s side. It barely changed him, though the bard clearly enjoys this new-found mystical fame of his. He certainly learned to put on airs for it, which should include talking less and being all mysterious, and instead consists of talking just as much but somehow not saying anything. It works as well, and Geralt supposses, that’s the important part.

There are a lot of things in Geralt’s life he now finds important that never really mattered before. Somehow, all of them are about Jaskier. The way he swings his arms around Geralt’s shoulders after a good performance. The way he hugged him once to thank for his success, so earnest, without any second thoughts. The way Jaskier beams with pride and joy every time he gets recognized on their travels. His smile, lit up by the campfire, and the way sunlight reflects in his blue eyes, and his love for flowercrowns he makes for himself and Roach. His safety. His happiness. Him being close to Geralt, too.

The witcher’s getting soft, he knows this. He also knows that it’s not going to end well for him, because it never does. But as long as he can hear Jaskier’s laughter, he will follow it. He just doesn’t know any better anymore.

***

On their travels, they stumble upon a village terrorized by something living in the nearest lake. The locals lost their source of clean water, and they are ready to pay as much coin as they can put together.

The place is so small it doesn’t even have a tavern, but some family living on the outskirts of the village lets Geralt and Jaskier stay in their barn. The witcher decides that he will hunt the beast tomorrow, after a good night of sleep. When they finally decide to call it a day, however, Jaskier starts fidgeting around and sighs dramatically every couple of minutes.

“What is it, bard?”

Geralt turns to him, a little annoyed. The bard crosses his arms on his chest and bites his lip.

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you with my attempts to not freeze to death here, Geralt”, he says sarcastically.

The witcher frowns. It is getting colder by the week. He almost forgot Jaskier spent most of the winters apart from him, living in bigger cities. He had assumed it was a coincidence, but apparently, the bard was simply more sensitive to the cold. Geralt made a mental note to himself to buy a blanket first chance he gets.

“If we make a campfire, we might burn the barn down by accident. Too much hay here.”

“Well, I’m not suggesting that!” 

The bard sighs again and gets on his feet. He picks up his sleeping bag, walks over to Geralt and puts it right next to him. Ignoring the witcher’s look (or maybe just oblivious to it in the darkness) he lies down again, this time with their shoulders pressed together. Geralt considers protesting but decides against it. After all, it’s just for warmth. If the bard catches a cold, it might turn into something serious.

Geralt wakes up in the early hours of dawn, still lying on his back, to find Jaskier hugging the witcher's arm, with his forehead pressed to his shoulder and their ankles touching. He gets up almost right away, careful not to wake the bard.

The monster turns out to be an aeschna, a log-looking giant beast with teeth sharper than blades. It doesn’t take Geralt much time to slay it, though the battle leaves him tired and injured. There are no open wounds but his body is almost literally covered in bruises when he finally cuts the monster's head off. 

He stumbles back into the barn, and Jaskier runs up to him immediately, lute left and forgotten on the ground. The witcher leans on his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Jaskier asks with concern. He’s trying to see if there’s any blood on Geralt’s armor and calms down a bit, finding none.

It’s not until the next day that he sees the bruising on the witcher’s body. They decide to go for a swim in the blasted lake before leaving. Used to constantly being sore for one reason or another, Geralt forgets about his injuries and takes off his shirt. Even looking the other way, he hears Jaskier’s heartbeat fasten, and realizes his mistake right that second.

“Gods, Geralt…”

The bard walks up to him. While Geralt searches his eyes, he looks at the purple skin, lightly scratched at some places, and gently touches the witcher’s stomach where the bruising is especially bad. Geralt can’t help it when his breathing hitches.

Jaskier hastily steps back.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?” Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier sighs quietly. “It doesn’t look good. I could make a salve to help with this. I know you will heal soon enough but, I don’t know, I feel like you shouldn’t just leave it be.”

The witcher tilts his head. “You know how to make salves?”

He gets a weak but cheeky smile in return. “I’ve learned to. Quite recently, in fact. In my line of work, it’s a useful skill.”

“You’re a bard.”

“I’m _your_ bard.”

***

What’s happening right now doesn’t really make sense to Geralt either.

He just recently got used to all the touching from the bard, and somehow, Jaskier keeps coming up with new excuses to get his hands on Geralt. Last week, it was the salve for bruising. Today, apparently, it’s a massage.

And Geralt is aware that he should not let Jaskier get so close to him. If he was a decent enough man, he would finally push the bard away, leave him, forget all about him, _let him live,_ before something horrible happens. He tried, at first, though his constant insults must not have sounded sincere, because they eventually grew into a mutual banter, a rather calming habit. That’s just the effect Jaskier had on him, somehow always soothing his nerves, making him a better man, not as angry, not as bitter. The worst thing about their companionship, however, was the fact that next to him Geralt felt at home. If he ever truly knew what it’s like, it was too long ago to remember. But he thinks that’s what this feeling is, the soft warmth inside of him. A sense of belonging.

It would be easier if Jaskier just wanted to have sex, really. They would, and then they would go their separate ways, and it would be okay. It would be safe, and familiar, unlike the intimacy this friendship of theirs brings.

Whatever is happening now, it’s neither safe nor familiar. The bard cares about him. Offers so much without expecting anything in return. Geralt doesn’t understand that. He doesn’t get why the hell would Jaskier choose to stay with him, of all people.

But he lets the bard do it anyway.

So it really should come to no surprise, that when Jaskier notices his sore muscles and offers a massage, Geralt doesn’t have it in him to say no. He should. He simply doesn’t.  
Jaskier’s hands are clever, rubbing his back, making the tension in his shoulders disappear. A pleasant warmth spreads all over his body. Geralt wonders for a moment where could the bard learn how to do this, but the thought doesn’t stay in his head for long. The soft candle light filling the room, the sweet smell of oil, the smell of _Jaskier_ , so familiar and calming, fused with love, as always. Geralt also wonders if Jaskier loves _him_ , at least a fraction as much as he seems to love everything else around.

With time, Jaskier’s movements become slower, he puts less strength behind them. His fingers are tracing gently the outline of Geralt’s muscles, and the witcher can’t help but moan softly. Jaskier stops for a moment, inhaling sharply. _“He must’ve thought I’ve fallen asleep”_ , Geralt realizes, and moves his head a bit to look at the bard.

“Thank you.”

“Ah, well, you’re welcome. Look at you, being all polite! I should do this more often, maybe you’ll even learn to smile and make small talk at parties.”

“Hmm.”

“Right. Shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

The bard smiles, still tracing Geralt’s back muscles absently. They look at each other for a few more seconds until the witcher sits up. Jaskier stays seated in the floor near the bed, his arm lying right next to Geralt’s leg. He looks down on him and tries to memorise the image of Jaskier just like this, with his hair all messy after a long journey, relaxed, in his half-unbuttoned undershirt. Geralt makes sure not to let his gaze linger there for too long.

“I do smile, sometimes.”

“Oh, really? And when is that, exactly? I can hardly remember the last time the world was blessed with such a rare sight.”

“Well, there was this time I made some lord believe you were a eunuch…”

“Of course that would make you happy. You know what, I actually do recall you smiling! The last time I performed that song about a lad who robbed a ridiculously rich lord and gave the money to the people, and they all had a big old celebration afterwards. It would seem you actually liked either my singing, or the subtle satire with which I made fun of the lord, and-”

“Both.”

“Huh?”

“I liked both.” Geralt lets the corner of his mouth move upwards, just a little, and the bard’s face lights up immediately.

“Why, Geralt, you even know how to compliment people! I _will_ be giving you massages more often from now on. Makes you less cranky, it would seem.” Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt’s thigh, squeezing it a little, and then he gets up. “Well, while I do enjoy this newly uncovered side of you, I am also about to pass out. So, if you’ll excuse me, I'm gonna go to bed.”

Once again, they share a glance that lasts for a few seconds. This time, it’s Jaskier who breaks the eye contact by walking away.

***

They go their separate ways not long after that. Jaskier gets invited to perform at some noble’s wedding, and he can’t afford to linger, has to leave right away to make it in time. Geralt would go with him willingly this time, if not with happily, but he has some rusalkas he’s got to deal with as soon as possible.

They are standing at the edge of a little town, both ready to go. 

“So, I, uh… I’ll see you around, I suppose.”

Jaskier smiles with some uncertainty and touches Geralt’s shoulder as if he hadn’t just broken the man in half. He was always surprisingly care-free, true enough, but for some reason Geralt was hoping that their goodbye would be a bit more heartfelt. That it would be harder for the bard to leave him behind.

Jaskier, who was waiting for an answer, finally grabs his bag and turns to his horse. Geralt closes his eyes, inhales deeply. There’s one good thing about being alive as long as he has been: learning valuable lessons. Such as, there are things you should never let go of. There’s also a downside. It never gets easier to take the first step.

“Jaskier, wait.”

The bard looks at Geralt, puzzled and hopeful at the same time. For some reason, now, met with the gaze of his blue eyes, Geralt finds himself almost unable to talk. He fights to push the words out of his mouth.

“Let us meet in Vizima, when we are done. It’s half way for both of us. Fox’s tavern, where we stayed last time.”

These words are a confession, the truth that’s felt so heavy on his heart for months now, finally out in the open. _He wants to stay with Jaskier, too._ And the bard smiles brightly at that. With the sun making his hair look almost golden, Geralt thinks it’s one of the best things he’s seen in his too-long life. This grin, and the happy little sparkles in Jaskier’s eyes.

Making the first step is hard, but when it’s worth it, _it’s worth it._


	2. it's alright

Jaskier wishes he knew what the hell happened.

He could swear he was finally stabbed to death by some very angry lady whose husband he slept with. It was a banquet, he was a bit drunk off of his amazing performance (and, possibly, mead), you know how it goes, nothing out of the ordinary. Next morning, he found himself in a bed with that treacherous man (seriously, the least he could do was give Jaskier a warning about being married!) and his wife yelling angrily at him, swinging around a _big_ kitchen knife.

What happened after, you can imagine. You could not, however, predict what happened _after_ after. Or, at least, Jaskier couldn’t. Neither could the poor married couple.  
Right before they were going to bury the body in the nearest woods, like some kind of experienced murderers, the bard inhaled sharply and sat up on the ground where they put him down. Covered in his own blood, still feeling the ghost sensation of the wounds, but unharmed. The wife screamed, watching him in horror, and they ran away faster than Jaskier remembers himself running from a kikimora. He would produce his best evil laugh then, if he wasn’t so damn confused.

Now, sitting in a local tavern and thinking about it, Jaskier realizes something slightly strange did happen at the wedding last night. At some point, he decided to take a break from performing and get some air. Being slightly intoxicated, however, he lost his way in the castle’s halls and ended up in a poorly lit room. Jaskier can’t recall what exactly was inside, except for a little table right next to the door, with some weird-looking glasses. Some of them were half-full of liquids, others empty. The bard thought he saw one with wine inside, and drank it without a second thought.

He found the balcony eventually, and then managed to get back to the main hall where a very worried mage was talking to the newly married lord. They had a heated discussion, exchanged some lines among of which were, “How could you just leave a possible immortality potion out in the open?!” and “It must have been lord Skyer’s spies who stole it”. Jaskier didn’t think about it too much at the time but now it all sort of came together.

The bard bit his lip while looking into the distance. Should he… check to see if he’s really immortal? What if he just dies? The potion could have been made to work only once. Besides, it’s only “possibly” grants immortality.

Essentially, Jaskier sees only one way to find out what changed in him without putting his life in danger. Well. Perhaps, with putting his in _a little bit_ of danger.  
He has been affected my magic, so he has to find the only mage he knows. He has to find Yennefer of Vengerberg.

***

It’s not that hard to do, unlike Jaskier expected. Yennefer, characteristically so, doesn’t exactly do things quietly, and if that reminds him of someone (possibly a very handsome and talented bard), he doesn’t think about it. After a week of travelling and asking around, Jaskier already knows where she is. Yennefer is currently serving some lord near Novigrad. It takes Jaskier a few days to get there, and the witch, to his surprise, lets him into her quarters almost immediately after he asked the guard to tell her about his visit.

“What do you want, bardling?” she asks, looking at Jaskier from a little throne she’s sitting on. He has no idea why would there be a bloody throne in her quarters, but oh well. He’s not exactly surprised.

Jaskier braces himself for a not-so-pleasant and possibly degrading conversation, and bows his head a little.

“I’m here to ask for your help, Yennefer. I was hoping you would grant me such a favor once more.”

The mage narrows her eyes, and Jaskier thinks he sees a shadow of worry on her face.

“Don’t waste my time, Jaskier. What is it? Geralt is well, I hope?”

Ah, there it is. She was worried about Geralt. The way she said his name made something inside of Jaskier twist unpleasantly, and he nearly stops himself from clenching his fists. This is not the time for jealousy, he reminds himself. He needs Yennefer’s help.

“Straight to business, I see. Well, there is… uhm, a problem, of sorts. Not with our dear witcher, gods forbid, though he does seem to have _something_ wrong with him, considering how rude he can be sometimes, but that’s, well, that’s no matter. The problem is, I seem to, uh, have drunk a potion which might have made me… immortal.”

Jaskier’s voice goes a bit higher at the end of his speech which makes the whole thing sounds like a question. Yennefer sits up straight in her fancy chair. She glares at Jaskier with such clear accusation he feels the need to say something in his defense, though he’s scarcely done something wrong.

“It’s not as if I did it on purpose! I found a potion, but I thought it was wine, so I drank it, and…”

“Enough! Honestly, how do these things happen to you?” Yennefer sighs heavily. “What do you want from me, then? Don’t tell me you want to get rid of your immortality.”

“No, thank you very much, I will definitely need it! But to be frank, I’m not completely sure if I am immortal after all. A woman stabbed me, and I might have died. I came back though, and all the wounds were healed. I thought, perhaps, there is a way to check if the potion is still working? Without actually trying to kill me, that is.”

The mage nods slowly all throughout his little tale, and then gets up on her feet. As she comes closer, Jaskier steps back, but she puts her hand on his forehead anyway. For a few seconds, she looks extremely concentrated, and then she opens her eyes.

“Well, I think you _might_ be immortal, Jaskier, so congratulations on that. Although, there should be some ways to kill you. Magical, mostly. Possibly, there is an antidote to the potion you took, as well.”

“Uh-huh, that’s very useful. Thank you, truly.” Jaskier turns to leave, relieved that the whole ordeal is over, but looks back almost instantly. “Can you tell which ways are those, exactly? Would be terribly awkward for me to die in the most inconvenient moment, don’t you think?”

Yennefer narrows her eyes, considering.

“Possibly. I’d have to do some research, however. How about this: you let me take your blood and do some magical experiments on you, and we’ll be even.”

Jaskier frowns. “Experiments? Just what are those like? And what do you get out of this, apart from torturing me?”

“Don’t look a gifted horse in the mouth, bardling”, Yennefer says with a cold smile. “I get an opportunity to learn, is all. So?”

The bard tries to glance over the fact that she ignored his question about the experiments. He swallows hard, and nods. “It’s a deal, then.”

***

Jaskier knows Geralt must be expecting him in Vizima already. 

Walking away has never really been hard for Jaskier. For gods’ sake, he left his home years ago, and haven’t seen his family since. He is used to travelling and thus, to leaving people behind. With Geralt, however, it’s different. The more time they spend together, the harder it is to walk away. The thought of never seeing the witcher again leaves Jaskier with a bitter, heavy feeling in his chest. He was so happy when Geralt suggested they meet afterwards, and now he is forced to delay the sweet, sweet moment of their reunion.

He hires a messenger to let the witcher know he’s all right. 

Although, he’s pretty sure he’s not exactly out of danger. Yennefer is an experienced, powerful mage, he has to grant her that, but she also seems to be plain evil. So, while she probably won’t kill him by mistake, she might very well try just to see if it works.

Jaskier stays at the lord’s castle for the time being, Yennefer makes sure he gets the worst possible quarters. It’s still way more comfortable than life on the road, so jokes on her. There is one thing Jaskier misses though. One particularly grumpy witcher with such beautiful silver hair, and those piercing yellow eyes, and strong arms, and that lovely… well. Jaskier hopes Yennefer can’t read minds.

They have to spend a fair amount of time together, and it’s not the most pleasant experience for Jaskier, but it’s also not as terrible as he expected. When Yennefer isn’t being a power-drunk insane witch, she can be quite tolerable.

The bard keeps mostly quiet for the first day or two, and then he gets way too comfortable for his own good. 

One day, some lady walks in on Yennefer drawing magical symbols on his torso. The mage looks up, messing up a sigil, and her lips turn into a thin line. She seems so irritated, as if this lady has been bugging her for quite some time now. Without thinking too much about it, Jaskier says, “Excuse you, we’re trying to perform a magical orgasm here! Away you go, get out!” 

The poor woman goes white as a sheet, and runs away covering her face. Jaskier thinks he could have read the situation wrong, in which case he’d be about to get stabbed again, but when he turns to Yennefer she actually looks amused.

“Good one. Andra can’t seem to understand I do not want her randomly walking into my rooms, no matter how hard I try to explain that to her. Perhaps, that will teach her.”  
“I knew it!” The bard looks up at Yennefer and smiles victoriously. He watches the witch wash away a part of a symbol, and then continues, pushing his luck, “And did you see what she was wearing? Gods, it’s a miracle they let her walk around the castle in that dress.”

“True. It’s embarrassing, I looked better than her at her own recent wedding.”

Yennefer returns his smile.

Jaskier would think he imagined the whole thing if she didn’t invite him to join the lord’s dinner party that evening. Determined not to disappoint the mage, he’s being as charming, as quick-witted as he can. And, obviously, best-dressed. The little crowd of lords and nobles gathered there loves him, and once that happens, he starts acting as if Yennefer is the only person worth his attention there. It goes without saying that she picks up on the game and goes along with it, in the nearest few days making them the most discussed and envied people among the inner circle of the lord.

They form a silent kind of solidarity after that, and it makes the whole thing bearable. After all, being practically locked up in a fortress and experimented on isn’t exactly fun. In about a week, however, Yennefer invites Jaskier into her quarters and instead of taking his blood or trying some new rituals, she gestures to the little sofa.

“I’m done with the tests. Briefly speaking, that was not a potion of immortality. Not in a way I imagined it, anyway. I’m guessing the lord wanted to become some kind of an extremely strong and nearly indestructible warrior, because the potion had quite a few effects. It’s like a child mixed together a bunch of ingredients, if I’m being honest.”  
“So? What are those effects, exactly?”

“Let’s see, your bone structure has been altered. Your teeth have sharpened in the last weeks, have they not? They also became stronger, along with the rest of your bones. You should be able to grow muscle a bit more easier, which is good because it will be slightly harder for you to move around now. You’ll get stronger, is what I’m saying.”

“That’s so strange… I’ve noticed the teeth, though I simply thought I was imagining it, to be frank. But I hardly feel any different in other regards.”

“The changes are designed to come slowly, it’s less painful this way.”

“I... see. But what about the woman who stabbed me? I’m quite sure the wounds were _at least_ nearly lethal, and then they were just, _poof!_ gone like that!”

“Ah, yes, the most important part. Well, two parts, rather. Firstly, your body’s regeneration speed is way higher now, so you can heal from nearly any wound. Secondly, you do not have to worry about dying of old age.”

“No! You must be jesting! Really?!”

The mage sighes heavily as Jaskier takes her hands in his.

“Yennefer, I am so grateful! You, my good woman, are a bearer of the best news I’ve heard in a long time!”

“Yes, well, I suppose the fact that there will be at least one man with decent taste around is not so horrible.”

“Oh, you bet I’ll be around! Singing my ballads for many, many decades to come! Just imagine the rumors, the reputation I will be able to obtain! And the not aging thing, gods…”

Yennefer practically pushes him out of the door. Eventually. The very next morning, he’s already on the road to Vizima.

***

Geralt isn't worried about the bard, of course not. Why would he be? He knows well enough that Jaskier can stand up for himself, most of the time. Not so long ago, Geralt watched him attack a werewolf with a silver fork. More than once. In retrospect, it wasn't the bard's greatest plan, yet somehow he didn't lose. Probably, only because Geralt got there soon enough.

All right, maybe Geralt's a little worried.

When a messenger knocks on his door and hands him a letter, he expects something of a dramatic novel explaining how the bard fell into the wrong bed with the wrong person and now has to be on the run. Instead, the letter contains only a few lines:

"My darling witcher,  
By fate's cruel hand, I am forced to stay away from you for a couple of weeks longer than we anticipated. I know your life must be terribly dull without me in it, so I will do my best to get to Vizima the first chance I get. In all seriousness, I hope you'll forgive me for the delay.  
Yours truly,  
Jaskier"

After reading it, the witcher feels unsettled. The joking, affectionate tone barely leaves any doubt that it was written by Jaskier himself, and the handwriting is familiar, though Geralt doesn't know it very well. The lack of details, however, suggests that the bard is hiding something, and if he can keep quiet about it, it must be something serious.  
Until Jaskier arrives, Geralt spends his time hunting monsters in nearby villages. Thankfully, there are enough jobs to keep him busy. He knows this life well: find a beast, kill it, get paid, leave. Don’t think, don’t feel. Simple.

He’s not as good at the last part as he used to be.

When he returns to his room in Fox’s tavern, Jaskier is there already. The moment Geralt sees him, something overcomes him. He runs on pure instinct; the feeling is similar to that he gets while fighting, and at the same time, it's nothing like the cold focus of the battle.

Geralt realizes, after a few seconds, that he’s clutching the bard in his arms, holds him tight, breathing in the familiar smell. It’s musky and bitter from the sweat, and it’s _Jaskier’s_ , and Geralt has missed it so much. He missed the bard himself, looking at him and hearing him sing, talking to him, just being next to him. 

Jaskier has one hand resting in his hair, and the other around his waist, gently pulling the witcher closer. Geralt takes another deep breath right next to the other man’s neck, and something hungry twists inside him.

The witcher pulls away, and Jaskier smiles at him.

“If this is how you greet me after a month apart, I’m afraid to imagine what you’ll do to me if we ever have to part ways for a year! Not that I was planning to leave again any time soon, mind you.”

“Not that I would let you”, Geralt answers, only half joking. He thinks he can see the bard’s eyes darken, but it’s over before he can be sure. “Are you all right? Why the delay?”

“I was feeling unwell and had to stay at the lord’s castle for a bit, gods bless his generosity. I didn’t cause you too much worry, I hope?”

“It’s okay. I was busy. There was a surprising lot of monsters around the city. And, since you’ve mentioned it...”

The witcher turns to his bag and takes a newly bought blanket out of it. “Should keep you from catching a cold again.”

***

Jaskier’s reunion with Geralt has him go through way too many emotions, way too fast. The initial excitement from being back together with his friend is almost overwhelming. They’ve been apart before, sure, but it also feels like they’ve never gotten so close until recently, so Jaskier was terrified their bond would weaken after a month apart. Clearly, it’s not the case, because the hug Geralt gave him could probably crush his ribcage if it wasn’t for his new… abilities.

Jaskier is a but reluctant to tell the witcher about them. It’s pretty obvious that now he’s not exactly human, and telling a professional monster hunter about your sort-of-monstery powers isn’t something Jaskier would consider the best move. Of course, Geralt wouldn’t hurt him, ever. The question is, how will he take the news? Would he still treat Jaskier the same?

He is going to tell him eventually. When the right time comes. For now, Jaskier holds onto the witcher like his life depends on it. He is tired, not only from the journey, but from the stress he’s gone through in the last few weeks. You know, dying, and coming back to life, and voluntarily going to the evil witch, and somehow befriending her… He feels exhausted. All he wants is to fall asleep next to Geralt. That is, until the man basically hides his face in Jaskier’s neck and _smells_ him ( _dear gods above!_ ). He definitely feels more awake, then. And, possibly, a little turned on.

The thing is, he knows Geralt’s… well, interested in him. Jaskier isn’t blind, he’s noticed the way his witcher looks at him. Stares, when he thinks the bard isn’t paying attention. And of course Jaskier wants him, too. But it’s not that simple.

Jaskier knows a thing or two about people, and a little bit more - about love. He can see the walls Geralt has built around himself. He realized a while ago that if they fucked right away, he wouldn’t be able to get inside. Ever, probably. So he needed to take the longer route. Carefully take those walls apart, brick by brick, gently and patiently. He wants Geralt to know that it’s love. That it’s something true, and that it’s all for him. Because it is. _Of course it is._

His patience might run out, however, if the witcher stays with his face buried in Jaskier’s neck, his hot breath on the bard’s skin. It’s a good thing he pulls back soon enough.  
They go on travelling after spending a few nights in the tavern. Everything is back to normal, wandering the land, protecting people, entertaining them, having late-night conversations with Geralt. It’s mostly Jaskier talking, obviously, and them looking and them looking at each other over the campfire. As much as the bard hates the sheer thought of any sort of routine in his life, theirs isn’t that bad, and he falls into it with ease. He likes telling Geralt different tales while the witcher’s cleaning his armor and sharpening his sword. He likes talking to Roach while walking. He likes the looks people give them when he understands Geralt without a word, and he certainly likes a new little habit they formed recently.

Ever since Vizima, they sleep right next to each other, side by side. There’s no need, Jaskier would be warm enough under the blanket, and Geralt wasn’t cold in the first place. But the witcher lays down next to him anyway.

***

One day, they are sitting in a tavern. It’s loud and hot, and it’s a great change from the snowstorm outside. Thankfully, even Geralt prefers to stay rather close to cities during the winter, so they found the inn quickly enough when the wind started literally throwing ice in their faces.

Jaskier, too tired to perform this evening, is sitting next to Geralt. They ordered some soup and roasted meat, and are now sharing both meals. When the witcher seems to have gotten distracted by something across the room, Jaskier brings a piece of meat to his lips. Geralt looks at the bard with confusion but takes a bite anyway.

“Did you see someone there?”

“The woman in the red dress. She doesn’t smell right.”

“Well, you should tell her to choose new perfume.”

Geralt looks at him, deadpan, and Jaskier sighs in defeat. “Fine! What’s wrong with her?”

“She might be a werewolf.”

The bard goes quiet for a few seconds. This might be a good opportunity to start a conversation about his little secret. Not the fact that he wants to fuck Geralt, the other one.

“Can you smell any monster, then?”

“Most of them, yes.”

“So, in theory, you could just smell it if there was someone… not human, in this room?”

Geralt considers for a moment.

“Depends on what you call human. I can’t smell mutants, or mages, for example.”

“Do _you_ call them human?”

Geralt finally turns his full attention to Jaskier, and the bard feels a bit uneasy under his stare.

“Why do you ask about this?”

“Oh, you know, I’m… curious.”

“I suppose so”, the witcher sighs. “The mages, definitely. I am not human, though.”

Jaskier thinks he can quite literally feel his heart shrink. There was so much pain in Geralt’s voice when he said those words, even if it was carefully covered by years and years of denial. That’s what Geralt does, he hides his feelings in the farthest corners of his mind, until he can’t even see them himself, until he’s not sure if they were ever there in the first place. Sometimes Jaskier thinks the witcher has forgotten what true emotions are like. No wonder, since he only allows himself to feel something when he can’t contain it anymore.  
Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, rubbing it gently.

“Even if you don’t consider yourself human, you’re not a monster, either. So very, very far from it, in fact.”

Geralt frowns and looks away. Well, now he can’t bring up the whole I’m-kind-of-immortal thing. What kind of an insensitive, selfish ass would he be if he did? Oh, well. Looks like he’s got some more time before Geralt can never look at him the same ever again. What a pity.

And things between them _will_ change when he tells Geralt. The man nearly hates the fact that he himself is a mutant. So why would Jaskier expect anything different when it comes to him?

Geralt decides to ask around about the werewolf lady, and while he does that, Jaskier sings a couple of his ballads after all. They’ve changed in the past few years, becoming somehow sweeter, like honey, every sound dripping with longing and quiet intimacy. The bard thinks he’s found his style; he sings best about love and heroics, for that’s what he knows best. Thank the gods he’s found a muse, too.

That said, he still has a song or two for the evenings when the crowd just wants something nice and simple, something fun and, maybe, not strictly decent. Jaskier likes that sort of music, too. He might be a serious musician, but who doesn’t want to hear a song about abortions every now and again? Well. A fair amount of people, actually, but that doesn’t matter much. Most of the evenings, Jaskier manages to please everyone.

He locks eyes with Geralt, and the witcher holds up a key, showing he’s got a room for the night. Jaskier nods, smiling. He wraps up his performance, finishing the last song:

_So I will not ask you where you came from  
I would not ask and neither would you  
Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We should just kiss like real people do_

Both of them are too tired after walking in snow for days, so they go to sleep right away. Geralt’s been taking rooms with one bed for them for quite some time now, and today isn’t any different. Jaskier practically falls onto it, and the sleep gets to him the second his head touches the pillow.

He doesn’t sleep for long, however. A loud noise wakes him up, and before he even opens his eyes he can feel Geralt getting out of his embrace ( _shit, did he spoon Geralt in his sleep?_ ). Next second, someone’s breaking down the lock on their door, and Jaskier’s on his feet already, marvelling at how much better his reflexes have become since he started travelling with the witcher.

In a room lit only by the soft moonlight, he can see a shadow near the doorframe. For a moment, it stays till, and then it launches itself towards the bard.

Everything around Jaskier is slowed down; he can see Geralt, throwing himself in their general direction and not making it in time, he can feel claws ripping him apart, hot blood streaming down his chest, he falls on the floor. His scream comes out barely audible, yet terrifying, and after a second he realizes it’s because his throat is getting torn apart. His mind is flooded with fear and memories of suffocating and being stabbed, but somehow this feels way more painful. Perhaps because it’s happening right now.

***

Half of Geralt is screaming at him to throw himself right onto the beast that is hovering above Jaskier, damned be the consequences. He could probably strangle that thing with his bare hands right now. But his witcher training takes over. He grabs his sword from where it was lying next to the bed. He jumps across it, and before the werewolf can even turn its head, Geralt takes a wide swing, cutting it right off.

He breathes heavily, and falls onto his knees next to Jaskier. There’s not heartbeat, the room is completely silent. The witcher puts his hand on Jaskier’s cheek, whispering something nonsensical, “Come one, Jask, I’m here, it’s okay, it’s over, come one, please, please, _please…_ ”

There are steps going toward their room, and he throws an Aard at the door, making it slam closed. That, apparently, stops whoever was going to go in.

Geralt moves closer to Jaskier. He takes the bard in his arms, with panic realizing that he’s getting colder. His torso is torn open. Geralt shakes his head, his eyes closed. It happened so fast. He was right next to him not a minute ago, breathing evenly in his sleep, warm and full of life. He can’t be dead. He was just here. He was _fine._

 _No,_ his mind says. _He’s dead. You couldn’t protect him._

Geralt holds the bard tighter, hides his face in the other man’s shoulder. He takes a ragged breath. And then he’s breaking down, sobbing over the bard’s dead body like he hasn’t in decades, because he still smells sort of like himself, but instead of the familiar scent of love, it’s blood and death and _nothing._

Geralt can’t breathe, his own tears suffocating him, streaming down his face. It’s shock, and it’s grief, and it’s the most pain he’s ever felt. He’d die a thousand times over, if it meant preventing _this._

He stays like this for gods know how long, with his eyes screwed shut, his crying eventually dying out. He doesn’t want to move, as if staying in the same position also keeps him in that moment when it still seemed like Jaskier could be alive.

Suddenly, the bard tenses in his arms and inhales sharply, as if he was holding his breath for the longest time. Geralt pulls away instantly, staring at him with wide eyes.

***

Coming back to life is about as disorienting as it was the first time.

Jaskier opens his eyes and breathes in hungrily. The air filling his lungs feels so good, his head starts spinning. Not that he can see anything, either way. It’s pitch dark.

Oh.

It’s coming back to him. Jaskier realizes that he’s currently lying in Geralt’s lap. After a second or two, his eyes get used to the darkness, and he can see the absolute shock on the witcher’s face.

Geralt lights the fireplace with Igni, and continues staring at him, almost horrified. Jaskier can see traces of tears on his cheeks. He sits up straight and gently wipes another tear away from the witcher’s face.

“It’s all right, Geralt, I’m… I’m okay.”

The witcher breathes out, breathes in. Shakes his head.

“You were dead. You just _died._ ”

“Yes, well, I guess not? Actually, uhm. This isn’t how I was planning to tell you, but I’m sort of invincible.”

“What.”

“I drank some potion back at that wedding, and, uh, it made me… immortal.”

Jaskier bites his lip. This is literally the worst way to tell someone you’re immortal and have been keeping it a secret: when they just watched you die. Shit. The bard is examining Geralt’s face closely, trying to figure out what he’s about to do or say, when he takes Jaskier in his arms again and pulls him to his chest.

Jaskier huffs out a surprised breath and hugs his witcher. Gods, the horror he must have gone through. And it was all Jaskier’s fault, for not telling him sooner. The man looks completely wrecked now, holding onto Jaskier like he’s afraid the bard will disappear the second he lets him go.

Jaskier strokes Geralt’s hair, slides his hand up and down his back soothingly.

“It’s all right, I promise. Look, I’m fine. I’m here, darling. It’s all right now.”

At some point, the witcher pulls away carefully. He cups Jaskier’s face and looks at him for a few moments before getting up.

The innkeeper isn’t particularly happy with all the noise they made, but the fact still is, Geralt has freed the town of a werewolf, even if the people didn’t notice there was one. Apparently, that woman was killing her victims pretty rarely, and no one ever saw her, but the townspeople remembered that there has been a lot of deaths on the nights of the full moon, which kind of proves the point. So Geralt gets paid, and also kicked out.

The next town they could stop at is a few hours away, if Jaskier remembers correctly. At this point, it’s almost morning already, so they set out right away. When they leave the city Geralt holds out his hand to Jaskier. The bard looks at him in disbelief, gives him his hand, and gets hauled onto Roach.

In all that time, the witcher doesn’t say a word to him. Finally, when they’re well away from the city, Jaskier simply has to break the silence.

“Geralt, I’m sorry for not telling you. I really am. And I’m sorry for scaring you, okay? I never meant for it all to turn out… like that.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh no, no, you can’t do that now! Come on, would you just talk to me, please?”

Jaskier can see Geralt’s shoulders tense, and then fall in a defeated sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“I… I thought you might hate me! Or, you know, maybe not _hate_ , but I knew something would change. Best case, I thought, you never see me in the same light again, and worst case, you finally tell me to fuck off, for certain this time.”

“I don’t hate you, Jaskier. I never will.”

Silence settles after that, and it stretches for so long the bard thinks the conversation might be over when Geralt finally continues.

“So what, you’re immortal now?”

“Pretty much so. Can’t die of old age, very hard to kill, a tiny bit stronger.”

“That’s good.”

Jaskier frowns, confused.

“So that’s it? Good, you say? No further comments on the fact that I have altered my body permanently and irreversibly?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m glad you’re hard to kill now. What else is there?”

“I don’t know, you just… seem to have some sort of a problem with mutants and such. The way you talk about yourself, as if you were some kind of a strange, unnatural creature.”

“It’s… different.”

“Is it?”

Another silence. This time, it lasts for much longer. Jaskier opens his mouth once or twice to say something, but decides to let Geralt have his space. Metaphorically. Physically, not so much, considering he’s been holding onto Geralt’s waist since he got on Roach.

“I don’t have a problem with being a mutant. I’m different from humans, I know this. But it’s not necessarily bad,” the witcher finally says. “But people have always treated me like shit. I guess their words are just going to stay in the back of my mind forever.”

Jaskier leans his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Throw them away. It doesn’t matter what they say. You know who you are, and anyone with a brain does, too. Besides, people’s opinion of you has bettered recently, thanks to a very talented and determined bard.”

Geralt turns his head to look at him, and Jaskier grins in return once he sees a soft smile on his witcher’s lips.


	3. just put your sweet lips on my lips

When they reach the town, Geralt asks the innkeeper right away if there’s any work for him.

“I’ve heard there’s something dangerous living in the nearest woods, master witcher,” the woman answers. “Don’t know what’s that, but some men have gone missing there. You shouldn’t head out until tomorrow though. There’s a storm coming.”

Geralt looks in the window and furrows. Indeed, the wind’s getting stronger, and sky is covered with dark heavy clouds. For about three seconds, he considers going anyway but then gives up on the idea.

“We’ll take a room, then.”

The innkeeper looks somewhere behind the counter (at the keys, Geralt’s assuming) and then back at him, slightly worried.

“Only got one room left. There’s one bed in there, a big one,” she shifts her weight nervously from one foot to another. “I could give you some more pillows, of course, and a free bath, how about that?”

The witcher sighs heavily. His face must look even grimmer than usual, because the woman smells of fear now. He’s about to agree when Jaskier comes up to them.

“That would be lovely,” he says with a reassuring smile. “Thank you.”

About half an hour later, they are up at their room, a bath filled with hot water standing in the middle of it. Geralt looks at the bard with a silent question.

“Oh, you go ahead, then. I got you terribly stressed out earlier, so it’s only fair you get to relax, yeah?”

Geralt nods at him, grateful. After taking off his armor and clothes, he steps into the bathtub. Out of all the luxuries money can offer, this is possibly the best one, he thinks. Once his body is underwater, his muscles go blissfully soft, all the tension gone from his body. This is barely enough to make him forget the pure fucking horror he’s gone through when Jaskier practically died in his arms, but hey, it’s a start. Besides, he’s not exactly a damsel who faints in every slightly stressful situation. Everything turned out fine, and if he is a little hurt by the fact that Jaskier didn’t trust him at first, it doesn’t really matter. After all, it was his fault the bard didn’t feel safe telling him.

“You know, you don’t look too happy over there. What’s on your mind, my dear witcher?”

Geralt exhales slowly and sinks a bit deeper into the hot water.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, come on, we should be past that by now, don’t you think? The whole ‘I don’t feel anything and I never need to discuss my problems or get any help with them’ thing. It’s a nice facade, brutal in a strangely attractive way, some would say. But you can talk to me if something’s wrong.”

He considers it for a moment. He could talk to Jaskier, that’s true. He certainly trusts the bard enough to do so, but there’s no point, is there? He was scared. Even if it was only for a minute, he lived in a world where he lost Jaskier. And it was horrible, and he’d like to forget all about that.

“I know.”

“Right. Well, don’t hesitate, should the need arise, I guess.”

Jaskier comes up to the bathtub and sits on its edge. He looks almost sad, and certainly exhausted. Geralt tilts his head to look him in the eyes.

“Is it painful? Healing so fast?”

The bard looks up at him.

“I didn’t really feel it. Both times I got seriously injured, I… blacked out, lost consciousness. Maybe died, even. And no sooner than my body healed had I woken up. I still felt that thing tearing me apart, though.”

Seeing Jaskier like this, lost somewhere in the painful memories, with his shoulders and head down, Geralt wants to comfort him so bad it almost hurts. But the casual touching was never really his thing. Anything he did would feel too awkward.

“Get in the tub. It’s big enough, and if someone deserves to relax, it’s the man who died this morning.”

Jaskier laughs quietly and obeys. The witcher can’t help but look at him when he takes off his shirt, and doesn’t even try to hide it this time. At this point, it’s fairly clear what they both want.

After getting in the bathtub, Jaskier sits on his heels. They make eye contact, and suddenly Geralt feels he can hardly breathe under the bard’s intense stare. Gods know how long they’re frozen in that position, but at some point both Jaskier and Geralt move forward, clashing their lips together. 

The witcher puts his hands on the back of Jaskier’s neck and lays back, pulling the other man with him. The bard’s a good kisser, both passionate and experienced, and his hands feel so good moving all over Geralt’s body that he gets a little lightheaded.

The bathtub’s edge squeaks loudly, and Jaskier pulls away.

“To the bed,” he says, already getting out and holding a hand out for the witcher.

He leads Geralt through the room, and when the witcher can feel the bed behind him, Jaskier pushes him in the chest. They both fall into the bed, and Geralt tries to kiss him again but the bard moves to the side. After a second of rummaging through his bag, he gets out a vial of oil and smirks.

Geralt licks his lips, letting his gaze wander over the body of the man on top of him. Jaskier lets him, sitting in between his legs with one hand on the witcher’s thigh and the other, holding the oil.

“Fuck me,” Geralt says, finally looking him in the eyes. 

Jaskier bites his lip and the witcher’s momentarily hit with the sharp, heavy smell of arousal, and that's about the hottest thing he could imagine. He can hear the bard’s heart beat faster, see his gaze go darker. He leans over Geralt and kisses him, deep and slow this time, and suddenly the witcher feels something shifting inside his chest. It’s beyond physical reactions, something tender and fragile and small. He holds onto the feeling and chases Jaskier’s lips when he tries to move away, pulling the bard closer. He answers eagerly and puts his hand on Geralt’s cheek.

When the witcher lets him go, he stays there, looking him in the eyes.

“Are you sure, love?”

Geralt nods, trying not to dwell on how much care and affection there was in those words. He feels overwhelmed by this, by how gentle Jaskier is, how patient. It’s not what he’s used to. With Jaskier, all of this feels completely different and new, as if he’s never loved before, has never been with another person. Somehow, this is so much more.

The bard puts some oil on his fingers and carefully pushes one in. Geralt forces himself to relax and closes his eyes. Like this, all his other senses become sharper. Jaskier’s hot body, pressed against his, his smell, his quiet breathing and fast heartbeat, it all becomes clearer, more pronounced in the dark. Geralt revels in it, pays attention to every single detail. Jaskier starts moving inside of him and places open-mouthed kisses all over his chest and neck, and the witcher tangles his fingers in the bard's hair.

Soon, Jaskier pushes the second finger inside, and he soothes the initial discomfort by kissing Geralt once more, sweet and slow. The witcher answers passionately, deepening the kiss, exploring the inside of his lover’s mouth. He thinks he can never get tired of kissing Jaskier, and the fact that he will now be able to do it any time he wants makes him so happy he could hardly describe it.

Jaskier twists his fingers and _oh_ , that hits the spot. The witcher’s head falls back and he starts moving with the other man, chasing the pleasure.

Adding the third finger, Jaskier starts whispering something right next the Geralt ear. “You’re doing so good, darling, so good. Just a little longer now.”

The words do something to him, and he kisses Jaskier again, and then moves on to his jaw, his neck. The bard moans, and Geralt keeps at it, determined to get some more of those pretty sounds out of him. Jaskier’s body shudders when the witcher licks his collarbone, and he smirks, pleased with himself.

“Gods, Geralt,” the bard says, lifting himself up and looking him in the eyes. It seems as if he is going to say something else, but instead he takes his fingers out and reaches for the vial of oil again.

Geralt licks his lips anticipating what’s about to happen. He looks at Jaskier with expectation, and the bard lowers himself onto him, kisses him shortly before pulling away.

“On your knees. Bend over,” he says, a little out of breath. When Geralt does exactly that, he leans over the man and kisses his shoulder gently. “Good boy.”

All that really shouldn’t turn Geralt on as much as it did.

Jaskier kisses his way down the other man’s back and then bites one of his asscheeks lightly. Geralt’s had stranger things done to him in bed, but he looks at the bard over his shoulder, amused, anyway.

“You can’t really blame me, can you? Geralt, your body honestly must be sculptured by the gods themselves because I have never seen anyone as beautiful as you in my entire life.”

He leans forward and strokes Geralt’s face gently with one of his hands, holding himself up on the other arm. The witcher is at a loss, not only for words, but for thoughts as well, so he simply kisses the bard. He tries to pour all his love into this kiss, all his appreciation and admiration and everything else he can’t put into words. And when Jaskier pulls away, it seems like he understands.

Once he’s inside of Geralt, it doesn’t take long for him to find that spot again. With every thrust, Jaskier hits it, and in a few minutes they both are completely out of breath. The bard’s as loud in bed as Geralt expected, moaning and groaning and saying all kinds of dirty and sweet things, whispering them in his ear and kissing his neck right after. The witcher fucks into his own fist in sync with Jaskier’s thrusts and eventually he can’t really keep quiet either. He moans in pleasure, and Jaskier’s breathing hitches.

“Oh, my witcher, you sound bloody incredible.”

He groans involuntarily at the praise. 

“Geralt, love, the sounds that come out of your mouth are so much better than any song that could ever be written, I swear...”

The witcher’s heard many praises before, from many different people, but none sounded quite as sincere as Jaskier’s. It’s as if the man is just saying whatever comes to his mind, honest and open, as always, and it moves something inside of Geralt each time.

A thousand little kisses on his shoulders and a thousand words whispered into his ears later, Jaskier’s pace becomes way faster, less controlled. Geralt looks at him over his shoulder, and the bard leans forward, kissing his lover. It’s way messier than before, and when he pulls back, there’s a thin line of saliva straining between them, so Geralt feels perfectly justified when he closes the distance between them and kisses him again.

“Darling, I’m close,” Jaskier manages. He looks at the other man with a silent question, looking for a permission.

“It’s all right.”

He comes in a few seconds, and it’s his moan that sends Geralt over the edge, too.

When the wave of pleasure passes, Jaskier pulls out slowly and lies down next to the witcher. Met with the gaze of those blue eyes, Geralt feels completely open, so vulnerable, truly seen that it would make him want to run away would it be anyone but his bard. Instead, he takes Jaskier by the chin and pulls him in for a lazy kiss.

Some time later, they wash each other in the cool water, and Jaskier combs the witcher’s hair, all of their movements filled with care and affection. They spend the rest of the day in the room; Jaskier composing a song, Geralt cleaning his armor and meditating. He brings up some food, and they share their meals, as they usually do. Nothing really changes, yet everything is different now. 

That night, they fall asleep in each other’s arms. Surrounded by Jaskier's smell, feeling the bard's warm body pressed against his own, Geralt can’t remember the last time he felt so content, fully at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading! ily and i hope u guys enjoyed this at least half as much as i loved writing it lol. i wanna write some more stuff for the fandom soon :)


End file.
